


Keeping Score

by philomel



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fridge talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Score

He knew. It wasn't like he would _say_ it, of course not. And if you'd ask, he'd deny everything... or agree to it, knowing you wouldn't believe him anyway. But he knew, ever since the first note, affixed with a magnet to his refrigerator door.

 

 _Samosas are mine. So are the meatballs._

 _If I return to find they're gone, there better be CASH in their place._

 _\- W_

 

Since when did he have refrigerator magnets anyway? Especially ones shaped like berries? With _faces_?

He ate the meatballs and samosas, both servings of each. A telltale thumb-shaped smudge of red sauce on the middle C key would have betrayed him, if anyone cared to look. But no one cared about details anymore, just easy solutions and big things made bigger with the grandeur of Supersizing and—

"Money." Wilson's hard stare and steady upraised palm failed to hide the more prominent bounce of his feet. His hand jut out further, tugging his inflection with it. " _Mo-ney_. Cash? We're both doctors, so you can't tell me you don't have it."

"Whore."

"What?" Wilson flinched.

"I spent it on my whore. She likes to do it on a bed covered in Benjamins. But as I'm a strictly monogamous guy, I suggested we use 100-dollar bills instead. My mistake, because those little guys wedge their way into places—"

"Oh _god_!" Wilson waved him away. "Never mind. My stomach would reject any dinner after that mental image anyway. Just...." His finger flicked the pastel note stuck to the refrigerator before he tore it off and crumpled it in his hand. "I'm going to bed." The wadded note bounced along the floor as he walked off.

"If you find any 100s, you can keep them!" House called after him. Then, almost under his breath: "I’d wash them first."

Wilson turned and grimaced, or smirked — it was never easy to tell. He crouched toward the floor, hand stretched then curling for the note. The cane missed his fingers by an interfering millimeter of space, pinning the paper to the linoleum with a thud and a crinkle and a ineffectual "Hey!" from Wilson. He glared up at House: the man looked even grizzlier from below, his meticulously unmaintained stubble catching the fluorescent kitchen light, as did his fierce blue eyes. Catch the light, that is... although one could call his eyes grisly too. Not that Wilson would: he could see right through him, where even the too-strong, artificial light wouldn't show.

House moved as if to bend, then pulled back, tossed his cane, caught it upside down and scooped the hook under the ball of paper. It landed in his other hand. He looked smug and expectant, like a street performer waiting for a passerby to fill his cap. But before Wilson could fake some applause, House shuffled himself around, nearly smacking Wilson with his cane, and ambled toward the trash bin. As the lid slapped down, the door to Wilson's bedroom slammed shut.

The next day, House took a magic marker to the new note posted on his refrigerator door.

 

 _ ~~Fettucine is~~ MINE._

 _ ~~There's cash for~~ YOUR ~~dinner.  
Buy your own, if you're too~~ lazy ~~or~~ disabled ~~or~~ miserable ~~to make it.~~_

 _\- W **HORE**_

 

House left the bills on the refrigerator shelf, next to the empty tupperware. There was a fingerprint of alfredo sauce on the middle D-flat key. Or C-sharp, if you were an optimist.


End file.
